


Hallelujah! Noël! Be it Heaven or Hell

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Christmas, Dean in Denial, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Years, Pining, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5521586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts and ends on Christmas Eve, close to midnight.  Castiel takes a chance - Dean doesn't react well.  The fallout could be catastrophic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Christmas you get you deserve

1.

It starts and ends on Christmas Eve, close to midnight.

They’ve been drinking, of course – the Winchesters. Castiel too. And despite the stolen grace dissonant beneath his skin, he can feel the alcohol’s blurring effect on his body. He’s loose- limbed and relaxed as he watches the Christmas lights glow. He likes their stillness, their quietness; it’s almost prayerful. He also likes the incongruent aroma of pine that’s pervading the bunker, emanating from the fir tree dominating the room; it reminds him of kissing boughs, of _Koliada_ and _Jule_ and a dozen other midwinter festivals in the frozen north of a younger world. 

“It smells like Christmas,” Sam had insisted earlier, when he’d commented on the scent. “I mean, how Christmas is meant to smell.”

Dean had snorted. “Yeah, not like a crappy motel room and day-old Chinese.”

“Right.” Sam’s smile had turned rueful, as if embarrassed by Dean’s crass allusion to what was obviously a bad shared memory.

But Castiel hadn’t minded. One thing he knows about Christmas these days is that it’s all about family – the bad memories and the good. The fact that he’s here, with Dean and Sam, that they _invited_ him, is enough to suffuse him with warmth; he feels it swelling golden in his chest. Family. Sam and Dean are family. They’re like... He wants to say brothers, and that’s how he feels about Sam, but he’s learned that what he feels for Dean is different. Those painful months as a human, buffeted by emotions he struggled to comprehend and control, have left their mark. For better or worse, he understands himself now and when Dean returns from the kitchen, a glass of whisky in hand, Castiel knows that ‘brother’ isn’t at all the right word to describe how he feels. 

This self-awareness is one of the more problematic legacies of his time as a human.

Dean’s swaying a little but he looks happy, and to Castiel that’s the best sight in the world. Rare as it is, it feels like a miracle that they’ve carved this moment of peace out of the crappy road they’re travelling together.

“Hey,” Dean says as he drops down next to Castiel on the sofa. “Where’s Sam?”

“He said he was tired. He’s gone to bed.”

Dean smiles and his expression drifts away for a while, lost in the past. Castiel watches him, watches the play of the Christmas lights in his eyes, and feels that golden warmth spread out from his chest until it’s buzzing through him alongside his stolen grace. Only it feels purer, more vital – more truly his. “This one year,” Dean says at last, gazing at the Christmas tree, “Dad got Sammy this stupid Christmas stocking... Man, he was so excited.” He glances at Cas. “You know what a Christmas stocking is, right?”

Cas nods. “Of course.” They’d been selling them at the store before he left.

“So we filled it up when he was asleep, just with some crap Dad picked up at the gas station, but you should’ve seen Sammy’s face on Christmas morning, man. It was like—” He shakes his head, his smile fracturing as he struggles to contain in his feelings. “That was— That was right, you know? That was how it should always have been.”

“It sounds like a good memory,” Cas agrees, but can’t help a regretful sigh from escaping. “You both deserve so many more of those.”

Dean doesn’t respond, just lifts his glass and takes another mouthful of whisky. Castiel finds himself captivated by the way Dean’s throat works as he swallows and can’t repress the flare of human desire it provokes. He turns away, discomforted. That’s not who he is anymore, human and needy. He’d hoped that having some element of grace restored would have cooled the emotions that had wracked him as a human, but something about tonight, about Dean so close, so relaxed, only seems to heighten his longing.

Dean lounges back into the sofa, close enough that his shoulder brushes Castiel’s. He knows Dean would never sit so close if it weren’t for the alcohol and Cas feels a little sketchy (to borrow from the Winchesters) for enjoying the sensation so much, as if he’s somehow exploiting Dean’s inebriation. But he’s not so uncomfortable that he actually moves away from the contact.

“So,” Dean says, rolling his head on the back of the sofa so he’s looking Castiel right in the eye. “Guess Christmas is a big deal in your neck of the woods, huh?” 

His voice is light, belying the tension running through all of them. The recent situation with Gadreel, the threat posed by Abaddon: it’s all pressing in, heedless of the season. Nevertheless, Dean’s expression is warm and more open than usual, and Cas responds to him like a moth to a flame. Helpless, he’s drawn in, feeling his face heat as he leans a fraction closer. “Is Christmas a ‘big deal’ in Heaven?” He repeats the question, considering. “Well, the first one was, of course.”

“You were there?”

“We were _all_ there; attendance was mandatory.”

Dean gives a quiet laughs. “Mandatory,” he echoes, his expression fond. “So what – it was all polished halos and ‘Hark! The Herald Angel Sings’?”

“I’ve never been a Herald,” Cas reminds him, “or much of a singer. I was simply one of many among the Host.”

Clearly interested, Dean turns so that his whole body is facing Castiel. “So you were actually there, in the stable? With the donkey and the manger and everything?”

Cas shifts a little, partly because Dean’s thigh is now warm against his own leg, and partly because he can guess how Dean will react to his very minor role in the story. “Nearby,” is all he says.

Naturally, that’s not enough. Dean’s smile switches from attentive to teasing. “Doing what? Directing traffic?”

“I was—” Cas sighs. “There were shepherds.”

“Watching their flocks by night?” Dean says with a sudden, disbelieving laugh. “Wait, wait—” He clears his throat and starts to sing, “‘an Angel of the Lord came down, and glory shone around.’ Dude, seriously, that was you?”

Cas rolls his eyes and tries not to look amused. “Yes, well, I was among the throng.”

“That’s –” Dean laughs. “Dude, that’s freakin’ _awesome_.”

“Not really,” he says, although he’s pleased that Dean sounds impressed. “In retrospect, I’m certain Michael kept me away from the, ah, main event on purpose.”

“Always the trouble maker, huh, Cas?” And Castiel is almost ninety-percent certain he’s not imagining the pride in Dean’s voice, or the affection in his eyes. 

It makes him smile, really smile, and the sensation is excruciatingly human. The heat of it races through his blood, making his heart thump, and he thinks, with a pang of disquiet, that real angels aren’t capable of feeling this much joy. 

Dean’s expression, by contrast, turns serious. But although his smile fades, the warmth in his eyes doesn’t diminish. On the contrary, it grows a shade or two more heated as his gaze roves across Castiel’s face, dipping to his mouth. “You, uh,” he says, “you should do that more often. Looks good on you.”

Castiel hesitates; there’s something in Dean’s expression that makes his pulse skip, but he’s so inept at navigating human interactions that he doesn’t dare trust his instincts.

“Smile,” Dean clarifies for him. “You should smile more, Cas. Not sure if I ever really saw you—” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, shaking his head. “Shit,” he says with an unsteady laugh, “I’m pretty wasted, Cas.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees and he can’t pull his eyes away from Dean’s face; he feels like he’s being reeled under, drowning.

Dean’s expression grows serious again, a heated look of intent, and he shifts closer still until their legs are pressed together from hip to knee. Castiel swallows, his mouth dry; almost of its own volition, his hand flexes, fingertips brushing daringly along the seam of Dean’s jeans. Dean doesn’t pull away, just presses closer. “Cas,” he says, like a sigh, and he’s so near that Castiel can feel his breath against his mouth. 

And he thinks he remembers this from that time with April, the slow lean in, the unspoken question and answer. But this is _Dean_ and Castiel’s heart is hammering so loud in his ears it’s drowning out everything else: reason, reality, even self-preservation. Because he wants this – he’s probably wanted it for a long time, but it was only when he was stripped bare of his grace that he truly understood. And now he can’t forget. He can’t see past his longing for this human connection with the man to whom he’s bonded soul-to-soul.

In retrospect he’ll blame that longing for what happens next. He’ll blame it for making him float his hand onto Dean’s thigh, for brushing a kiss against Dean’s mouth, and for allowing his heart to soar when Dean responds, lips moving against his.

In retrospect, he’ll remember that instant as euphoric – and as the moment everything fell apart.

 

“The _fuck_?” 

Dean scrambles away, off the sofa. His heart is thundering, blood hot and thrumming in his face, and _fuck._

Cas, all rumpled distress, stares at him like Dean just shot his puppy. “Dean—”

“What the _fuck_ , Cas?” he repeats, backing away, because this is not him. It’s not. He’s not— He doesn’t— Not with guys. Not with _Cas_. His head is spinning and he blames it on the booze. He blames that electric jolt and the way his heart is jack-hammering on the booze because— “That was. Dude,” he says, “I’m not, you know. _That_.”

Cas’s eyes are wide and he’s sitting rigid, like he’s in shock or something. “I’m sorry,” he says at last, in a voice Dean’s never heard before, raspy and mortified. “I thought you—”

“Yeah, well, buddy, think again.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand to make the point and Cas looks away, actually turns his head to the side as he gets to his feet.

“I should go.”

Dean swallows because he doesn’t want to be an ass about this, even if his toes are curling with embarrassment. Cas has been through a lot, after all; he’s only just getting over being human, so it’s not surprising he’s confused. “Look, you don’t have to leave...” 

“I think I do.”

“Sam’s not gonna—” Dean isn’t sure what Sam will do, but his voice cuts off as he watches the way Cas’s hands are shaking as he grabs his jacket from the back of the sofa. “Cas,” Dean says, “it’s, you know— It’s okay. We’re both pretty drunk, right? These things happen.” Sometimes, maybe, but not like this. Not with guys he _knows_.

Cas doesn’t answer, he’s looking around. “I can’t find my shoes,” he says in that same raspy voice. 

“They’re, um, out by the stairs,” Dean says, pressing a hand to the back of his neck and trying to scrub away the memory of that kiss— 

It wasn’t a kiss. That was _not_ a kiss. 

And, yeah, maybe Cas _should_ go. Maybe that would be a really fucking good idea.

Cas seems to agree, because he’s already skirted around the sofa and is heading for the door. He stops to put on his shoes and his freakin’ hands are still shaking. Dean’s not sure why that bothers him so much because he’s shaking too. Shock, he tells himself. It’s just shock. Because, seriously, it’s not anything else.

“I, um,” Cas says, as he gets to his feet, keeping his back turned. “I’m very sorry, Dean.”

“It’s fine.”

“I thought you—” Cas throws him a brief, confused look that spikes a jolt of guilt because, yeah, maybe it wasn’t _entirely_ Cas’s fault. “Well, anyway,” Cas carries on, “I always seem to misinterpret this sort of thing, so—” He breaks off, clears his throat. “It, um, goes without saying that it won’t happen again.”

“Right,” Dean says, and now he can’t meet Cas’s gaze so he’s talking to his own feet. “Okay.”

“Tell Sam— Tell him I said thank you for inviting me. It was—” His voice goes gruff. “It was a good day.”

And then he’s off, taking the steps to the front door two at a time, and disappearing out into the night.

Dean tells himself he’s relieved. He shakes his head and says, “Cas, that weird little dude. Who’d have thought?”

And if there’s a regretful weight in his chest he doesn’t think about what it might mean, and if his blood is still racing like it’s burning he blames it on the whiskey and his own awkwardness. He buries it alongside everything else he doesn’t think about and refills his glass. With luck, by morning, he won’t remember a damn thing.

2.

Castiel has no intention of returning to the bunker the next day – or perhaps ever. His mortification is absolute, his desolation infinite. Somehow, he’s managed to ruin _everything_. Again. And although this time he’s made no deals with demons nor betrayed or deceived anyone, it somehow feels worse; he’s crossed a line and something irreparable has broken. Worse than that, it feels like he’s shed his vessel, revealed his true form, and had it scorned by the man whose good opinion means the most to him.

He’s thoroughly miserable.

He spends the night’s small hours on the steps of a Gas-n-Sip, watching the stars. It’s silent; no one is around this late on Christmas Eve. Everyone is home with their families, but Castiel, of course, has no home. No family. Heaven is locked and his brethren want him dead. There’s still Sam, he supposes, but there’s no Sam without Dean and after what just happened…

He closes his eyes against the memory of Dean’s revulsion and thinks, _When will you ever learn, Castiel?_ April, Nora, Dean: he doesn’t understand any of them, any of it. And when he tries it always, _always_ , goes wrong. Really, he should just stop trying. He wasn’t created for this kind of intimacy; he’s an angel, a creature of light, of celestial intent. Perhaps it’s time he lifted his eyes from Earth and sought a higher purpose?

The night is crisp and cold, but he doesn’t feel it as he had only a matter of weeks ago. His stolen grace protects him from the weather even if it doesn’t protect him from the human feelings that plague him. But he knows there will be others out tonight, cold and lonely, and it’s that thought that pushes him to his feet and sets him driving.

There’s a shelter in Salina, he’d spent the night there once. _That_ night in fact, the one after Dean had— After Castiel had left the bunker. Ironic that he’s heading back there now. Or perhaps not, perhaps that’s exactly why he’s going there. Either way, when morning comes he finds himself parked outside the shelter, watching the people waiting to be let in, watching the volunteers arrive. He thinks he could do some good here, without anyone paying too much attention. He could heal people, exorcise their more human demons; help people in the way he’d so recently needed help. 

So he gets out the car and makes his way across the windswept parking lot to offer his assistance.

The volunteers are friendly and glad to have an extra pair of hands. More importantly, no one recognizes him as the man who’d stumbled, desolate, into the shelter that fall night. He supposes a suit and a shave makes a big difference. Ostensibly, he’s put to work serving hot food and dispensing Christmas cheer. He’s gotten used to the ways of shelters, so he finds his way around with little problem. And in the quiet spaces, he touches a hand to a face here and there – brings what peace he can, mends minds and bodies, dispenses as many minor miracles as he can with his finite grace. It’s little enough, but he can’t help thinking what would happen if all his brethren were to do the same in all the many places of despair around the world. If they could just stop fighting each other and pay attention to God’s creation, they might do some good. But, of course, that’s been the problem all along; angels really don’t care about humanity. That’s why their Father abandoned them in the first place.

It’s close to noon and he’s talking to Aisha, one of the volunteers, when his phone rings. It’s Sam. Castiel ignores the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket until it goes quiet. Aisha smiles, “Family?” she asks in a way that’s neither expectant nor judgmental. She’s a kind woman, he thinks. She reminds him of … a flicker of unease hums through his thoughts … she reminds him of Daphne Allen, actually. She’d been a kind woman too, nonjudgmental and accepting. Caring. She’d cared for him when he had nothing, not even his own name.

“Um,” he says in answer to Aisha’s question, “it’s just a— a friend.”

The phone rings again and Aisha’s eyebrows rise. “A persistent friend,” she says and takes the ladle from his hand. “Go answer it, if you want to.”

He doesn’t want to, but neither does he want to burden Aisha with his problems, so he moves away from the serving line and pulls out his phone just as the ringing stops. A moment later, a text pops up. 

_Cas where are you?_

__He feels miserable, because Sam had invited him to stay for Christmas and now he’s ruined that too. His fingers hover over the keys, but he doesn’t know how to respond.

Another message pops up: _u ok?_

 __That one he can answer, so he sends a quick _Yes_ , followed by, _I’m helping at a homeless shelter._

 __There’s a long pause and he can imagine Sam’s raised eyebrows. Then: _ok cool but be here for dinner @ 4pm k?_

He doesn’t reply because he can’t decide what to do. Part of him wants to keep moving, to put some distance between himself and Dean until they’ve both had time to recover from his latest error of judgement. But he knows that’s the cowardly response, and that one way or another he has to face Dean again – and Dean has to face him. He knows that the longer he waits the worse that meeting will be, and so really the best thing to do is to get in his car and drive the couple hours back to the bunker. 

But the thought of going back, of seeing that uncomfortable look on Dean’s face, is so appalling that it’s already past four o’clock before he makes the decision to go. He hopes Sam and Dean will have already eaten, that they’ll be a little drunk, and that he can hover briefly and leave – much like he used to do back when he was truly angelic. Though he’d found many aspects of humanity confusing at the time, as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, Castiel finds himself nostalgic for those old certainties. Then, he’d been an angel of the Lord alight with divine purpose. Now, he doesn’t know what he is – some part angel, some part human, and a poor example of both.

It’s almost six o’clock by the time he pulls up outside the bunker and the sun has already set, the horizon inky against the encroaching starry black. He sits in the car for a while, debating whether or not to make the final step, but now he’s here he decides to just get it over with. It’s not the hardest thing he’s ever done, by far, and his distress seems strangely disproportionate to the task ahead. He decides it must be a legacy of his recent humanity, of his stolen and fading grace; he’s less angelic than he’d have others believe, and painfully aware of the fact.

Perhaps that’s why his bones seem to ache as he climbs out of the car and raps on the iron door to the Men of Letters’ bunker. Moments tick by before the door opens and he feels each one settle on his shoulders, their weight making him hunch forward. He hopes Sam opens the door. Or maybe he hopes Dean does, so they can get this first meeting over far from Sam’s perceptive gaze. Castiel imagines his own discomfort will be written on his face as bold as the angel warding on his skin, and Sam will know, immediately, what has happened – assuming, that is, that Dean hasn’t already told him. But that seems unlikely; it’s the kind of thing Dean would rather bury. He certainly wouldn’t want to talk about it, and on that front Castiel agrees. The less said about the whole thing the better.

When the door eventually opens, it’s to Sam’s smiling face and a heady aroma of cooking food. “You made it!” he beams, and drags Cas in with a hand on his arm as if he’s afraid Castiel might disappear.

If only it were that easy these days.

“I’m sorry to be late,” Castiel says, which is what he’s learned to call a ‘white lie’. He’s not sorry at all, in fact now he’s inside he’s seriously considering turning tail and fleeing; he’s certain Dean won’t want him there.

“No problem,” Sam says, blithe as ever. “Turkey took longer to cook than Dean thought, so you’re just in time.”

“Oh good,” he lies, without much conviction. His gaze darts past Sam but there’s no sign of Dean.

Sam frowns. “Hey,” he says, more quietly, and his hand lands on Castiel’s shoulder, “you okay?”

“Of course.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Sam regards him for another moment, coming to a halt on the steps down into the bunker. Then he shrugs. “Sure. Okay. Come eat first – I’m starving!”

His feet feel heavy as he follows Sam downstairs and toward the kitchen. There’s music playing, but he doesn’t pay attention to what it is because he can see Dean now, his back turned as he works on the food. The aroma is delicious, and he can feel his mouth start to water in the way it did when he was human and hungry. Despite his spiking anxiety about confronting Dean, he’s aware that this encroaching humanity must be evidence of his stolen grace fading, of him fading alongside it. His time on Earth is limited. Months maybe, possibly only weeks. 

“…real cranberry sauce,” Sam is saying. “Not out of a jar. Oh, and also – hey, you ever try pumpkin pie?”

Castiel blinks at him, hesitating before he enters the kitchen. “I’ll just…” he says, shrugging out of his coat and taking his time folding it and laying it over the back of a chair at the table. _Procrastinator_ , he thinks. _Coward._

Dean moves away, out of his line of sight, and Castiel takes a moment to remind himself of what he is – what he _was_ , at least: a warrior of God, an Angel of the Lord. He won’t be ashamed of how he feels. He straightens his shoulders, aware of what’s left of his wings bristling as the grace stirs sluggish beneath his skin. 

Sam eyes widen a fraction, as if he can sense Castiel flexing his power. “Cas?”

“Yes,” he says stepping forward, stepping into the kitchen. “I have tried pumpkin pie. I found it rather … solid.”

Sam laughs at that, and then turns to Dean who still has his back turned. “You hear that? ‘Solid’.”

“Dude doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dean says, and turns around enough to give Castiel a fleeting glance and a nod. “Cas.”

There’s a sensation in his stomach like falling, but without the exhilaration of flying. Castiel ignores it and just says, “Hello Dean. Um, Merry Christmas.” He turns to Sam. “And to you too, of course.”

Sam claps him on the back again and ushers him toward the kitchen table. “Merry Christmas, Cas. I’m glad you’re here, it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

That’s indisputable; it wouldn’t be the _same_ without him, although he often wonders whether it would be better. And he’s talking generally, of course, not specifically. Despite all his good intentions, the sum effect of his deeds on Earth, were they placed in a weighing scale, would probably favor harm over good. 

“Cas,” Dean says, heading to the fridge. “Wanna beer or something?”

He shakes his head. “No, thank you.” The last thing he needs tonight is for his limited human judgment to be further impaired.

“So, um, homeless shelter?” Sam says, nudging Cas toward a chair. “How was it?”

“Sad, of course,” he says as he sits down, grateful for the distraction from Dean, even if his eyes still follow him as he pulls out a beer and flips off the lid. “I’d never realized how many sad and lonely people there are in the world until I was one of them myself.”

Sam looks awkward and Dean bristles. Castiel can feel it like a crackle in the air, Dean’s emotions alive to him like they always are – even if his interpretation of them has proven to be catastrophically incorrect.

“Hey,” Sam says, looking earnest. “You know you’ve always got us, right? We’ll always be here for you, Cas. We’re family.” He glances past him. “Right, Dean?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says. “Family.” He clears his throat. “Like _brothers_ , dude.” 

Castiel ignores Dean’s pointed comment, irritated that he thinks he needs reminding. “Thank you, Sam,” he says instead. “Your friendship is very important to me.” 

Sam looks at him a moment longer, then says “C’mere” and grabs him into a hug, long arms wrapping around Castiel and holding him tight. 

Cas pats him awkwardly on the back, feeling uncomfortable because he can sense Dean watching them and when he looks up he sees an expression on Dean’s face that he can’t parse. If he didn’t know better he’d call it envious and he wonders whether Dean is jealous of Sam’s affections, afraid that Castiel is taking Sam from him in some way.

“Okay Bert and Ernie,” Dean grouses, moving to the oven and pulling it open. “I got work to do.”

“Jerk,” Sam says cheerfully, and lets Cas go with a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Let’s get you a drink.”

“Really, no,” Cas says. “I shouldn’t. I’m driving later.”

“What? Come on, stay here tonight, Cas. It’s Christmas – also, look.” He goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “See?”

“It’s a girl drink,” Dean says from where he’s lifting an unfeasibly large turkey out of the oven. “For girls. Real men drink beer, Sammy.”

 _Real_ men, Castiel thinks with another flicker of irritation. “I wasn’t aware,” he says, “that drinks were gendered.”

“Lots of things you’re not aware of, apparently.”

“I know ,” he snaps. “No need to remind me.”

Something guilty chases across Dean’s face and he turns away without responding, leaving Castiel feeling both triumphant and deflated.

“C’mon, try some champagne,” Sam says, and sets the bottle down on the table.

“Maybe the dude’s hung-over?” Dean cuts in, more quietly – almost apologetic. “I know I am. Man, most of last night is one big blur.”

Of course, Castiel thinks, that’s how Dean will handle this mess: amnesia. He should have thought of it himself. The tips of his fingers tingle – with a touch, he could actually erase Dean’s memory, set things back to the way they were. There was a time when he might have considered it, but not now – not now he knows the truth about Naomi, about how much of his own past has been erased. No one has the right to take another’s memories without their consent, so he simply says “Champagne would be nice. Thank you, Sam.” And then, as something of a peace offering to Dean, “The food smells appetizing. Much nicer than the meal they were serving in the shelter.”

“Ha,” Dean says, “I should hope so.”

“Of course,” Cas carries on, “when you’re truly hungry, all food tastes good, doesn’t it? Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten was under a bridge in—” He breaks off, afraid it will seem like he’s making a point, afraid he _is_ making a point. “Anyway,” he says after a moment, “that’s in the past now.”

There’s an awkward pause and Dean busies himself with the turkey until Sam says, “Okay, so help me find some glasses, Cas.”

After that it gets easier. The champagne helps and despite his good intentions Cas keeps up with the Winchesters. They’re all a little slurred by the time it comes to eat. He and Dean don’t exactly talk to each other, but they both talk to Sam and the meal tastes very good. Dean and Sam eat so much they can hardly move and end up slumped on the sofa, Dean at one end and Sam at the other, both softly snoring. Castiel watches them from the doorway, a half-bottle of wine dangling from his fingers, and tries to smother the memory of the previous night with the warm affection he feels for both brothers. He knows he’ll probably never see them so untroubled again; he’s certain that he won’t be here in twelve months, that his grace will have burned out and he’ll be gone. He doesn’t dwell on where he’ll be – Heaven, perhaps, or, nowhere at all. It’s a prospect with which he’s made his peace. He’ll miss Dean and Sam, but consoles himself with the thought that, once he’s gone, he won’t be able to do them any more harm.

The television is on and Castiel takes a chair on the far side of the room from the sofa, bringing the wine with him – he wonders whether he’s somehow drawn to its memory-fuzzing properties, whether this is some legacy of Naomi’s interference, or whether it’s simply a human weakness. Whatever the reason, it’s easier to think when alcohol is blunting the sharp edges of his emotions. The path ahead looks clearer when it’s not obscured by his feelings, and he finds himself wondering about the months to come – about what he’s going to buy with his stolen grace before he burns out.

Metatron’s head, perhaps? But he thinks he should be more ambitious. He touches his throat, remembers the pain of Metatron’s knife – of his grace bleeding out to close the gates of Heaven.

And that’s when it comes to him, like divine Revelation. He sits up straight; it’s almost as if he can hear his Father’s voice, can feel the celestial intent ignite in his veins.

His grace closed the gates of Heaven; it’s only fitting that his mortal life should close the gates of Hell. 

It wouldn’t be difficult for him to bathe in the blood of a Hellhound, to raise an innocent soul from perdition (again), or to cure a demon now that they know how it’s done. He thinks he’d like to cure Meg; saving her would add even more value to his death.

He swallows another mouthful of wine and closes his eyes. It feels inevitable now, like pieces falling into place around him, as if this is always how it was supposed to end.

Perhaps it’s why he was remade, perhaps it’s his ultimate purpose: to close Hell forever and free both Earth and Heaven from its depravities. What more could he hope to do in his dying weeks? What better reparation could he hope to make for all the harm he’s done on Earth and in Heaven?

When he thinks about it in those terms, the road ahead rolls straight and clear. 

Glancing over at Sam and Dean, ensuring they’re both asleep, he gets up and walks silently into the library; he knows exactly what he needs. 

3.

When Dean wakes up the credits are rolling and Sam is snoring softly at the other end of the sofa. Cas is sprawled in a chair as far from them as possible, an empty bottle of wine at his feet. His collar is loose, hair disheveled, and in the Christmas lights he’s all angles and shadow.

It’s a disturbingly familiar sight. Dean remembers the acrid scent of smoke and death, of a world on the cusp of annihilation. He remembers a Cas with no boundaries, no grace, and no hope; he’d looked a lot like the man opposite him now, drinking himself into oblivion.

Dean sits up, rubs a hand over his face and gets to his feet. Part of him – the gutless part – wants to leave, go clean the kitchen and wait for Sam to wake up and run interference between him and Cas. But, for all his sins, Dean’s never been a coward and no matter what had happened the night before, Cas is still his friend. So he takes a breath, crosses the room, and knocks his foot against Cas’s. “Hey,” he says, quiet enough not to disturb Sam, “Cas.”

His eyes open and Dean knows immediately that he was never asleep. “Yes?” he says, cool with restraint.

Dean rocks back on his heels, contemplates the kitchen again, and then nods his head toward it in invitation. “Help me clear up,” he says, and feels like a fucking martyr.

He heads out without waiting to see if Cas follows, and at first he thinks he hasn’t, but then he hears the rustle of his jacket and when he steps into the kitchen Cas is behind him. Keeping a very respectable distance, Dean notices with an unexpected pang.

“I’ll wash,” he offers. “You dry.”

Cas just watches him for a moment, then says, “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“About what?”

His eyes flutter up to the ceiling in exasperation. “Dean.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, starting to run the hot water. “Maybe I want to.”

“No, you don’t. And, anyway, I think the less said the better.”

“Okay.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sink and the bubbles foaming up where the water hits the detergent. “I just. We’re cool, right? I mean—”

“I’ve been thinking about Daphne.”

It takes a moment to process the non-sequitur. “You’ve been—? Who?” Dean turns and finds Cas hovering in the doorway, the fingers of one hand tapping on the frame. “You mean your fake wife?”

“She wasn’t ‘fake’,” Cas says irritably. “And, yes, I’ve been thinking about her recently. Since – since I was human. I feel sorry about how it ended. I don’t even—” He glances at Dean, barely meeting his eyes. “Did you ever tell her what happened to me?”

Dean frowns because, no. “It was— there was a lot going on, Cas. Sam was—”

“I understand.”

“I meant to,” he adds lamely, “but what could I tell her?”

Cas just says, “I should have found her myself and explained.”

“Dude, you weren’t in any shape to go looking and—” He swallows. “And then there was Purgatory. You were a long time gone.” 

“Nevertheless,” Cas says, “she took me in when I had nothing, when there was no one else, and I—” His throat works, jaw clenching, and Dean feels something hollow out at the sight of his distress. “Recent events have made me appreciate what Daphne did for me even more than I did at the time. She was a good person and deserved better.” 

“For what it’s worth,” Dean says, “staying away from her is probably the best thing you could have done. There were demons on your tail, remember? Not to mention those dick Leviathan. And now there’re angels.”

Cas makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “I’m going to find her,” he says. “Make my peace with her.”

“What?” Dean takes a step closer. “Cas—”

“She took me in, Dean. She cared for me.” His jaw sets, stubborn. “She deserves the truth.”

“The _truth_?”

He hesitates. “Some version of it.”

“And then what?”

Cas just shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just gonna show up, say hi, and fuck off again?” He feels a directionless flare of anger. “That’s your usual MO, but, dude, let me tell you, that’s gonna piss her off even more.”

“I just want her to know I’m okay. I don’t want her worrying about me, always wondering what happened.”

“Well, that’s a helluva lot more than _I_ usually get from you.”

Cas tilts his head, frowning. “You have no reason to worry about me, Dean.”

“The hell I don’t.” Dean scowls and turns away, back to the washing-up. “You’re a _friend_ , Cas. When you’re in the wind, I worry, okay?”

He washes all the plates and silverware, clanking them irritably onto the draining board, before Cas says, “Please don’t worry about me when I’m gone, Dean. I can look after myself.”

“We both know that ain’t true.”

Another pause, and when Cas speaks next his voice is closer. “I’m an angel now, Dean. I’m a warrior, a weapon of God. There’s very little that can hurt me.”

“Except your douchebag family. Crowley. Abaddon. Metatron...”

“I’ll stay out of their way.”

Dean lets his hands go still in the water, the soap bubbles clinging around his wrists. “So this is you saying goodbye, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas says quietly. 

“You don’t usually bother with the formalities.” He turns around, and Cas is watching him with those soulful eyes, all aching melancholy. 

“It seemed appropriate this time.” 

Dean feels a pulse of unease and grabs a towel to dry his hands. “And what’s different this time?”

“I—” Cas frowns down at his shoes. “I may be gone for some time.” 

Which sounds like a lie and Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch. “Define ‘some time’.”

He shakes his head. “Dean, after what happened last night—”

“Forget about it. Hell, I have.”

Cas lifts his head, fixes Dean with a direct look. “I can’t, Dean. I can’t forget—”

“Yeah you can.”

“—I can’t forget how I _feel_ , Dean.”

And the confession startles him silent. He swallows but his voice still comes out a shocked rasp. “How you—? You mean—”

“Yes,” Cas says, answering the question before Dean can even shape it. “And that’s why it’s best for both of us if I just … keep my distance.”

“But what if I—” He’s reeling; he doesn’t know what to say, how to answer that blunt confession. “What if we need you?”

“You won’t, not really. I’m not that useful now and you have others you can call on for help.”

“I don’t want others. I want— Damnit, Cas.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, but this is the best for everyone. You’ll see.”

He won’t. He won’t see any such thing, because a hollow is opening up in his chest the way it always does when Cas disappears on him. Only this time it’s worse because he’s got a sick feeling that Cas isn’t coming back, that he’s pushed him away for good. “Look,” he says, “I didn’t mean to be— Last night I was kind of a jerk.”

“No,” Cas sighs, “you weren’t.”

“I was.”

“You were … surprised?” He tilts his head, as if trying to understand it. “I should never have presumed… I _am_ sorry, Dean.”

“Quit apologizing,” Dean grumbles. “I was— Look, I was pretty drunk, Cas. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.” 

Which is a sorry-assed way of saying _I may have been toying around the edges of something, but you weren’t supposed to_ notice _or actually_ doanything _about it_.

If Cas understands, he doesn’t say so. He just glances around the kitchen like he’s storing memories, the way you do when you don’t expect to come back. Dean starts to panic. “At least stay the night,” he blurts. “Sam’ll be pissed if you leave. Anyway, you can’t drive; you’ve been drinking.”

Cas’s eyes refocus on him, purposeful. “My grace,” he starts, then stops and corrects himself. “The grace I stole can handle a couple glasses of wine, Dean.”

“I dunno. You looked kinda wasted earlier, dude.”

A flicker of a smile touches his mouth. “And now I’m sober.” He half reaches two fingers toward Dean’s forehead, “If you like I could—”

“No,” he says, because if Cas is leaving then he doesn’t want to be anywhere near sober for it. 

Cas accepts that with a nod. “Well,” he says. “I guess I’ll go.”

“Go where?” Dean objects. “Where the hell are you even going, Cas?”

His face blanks for a moment before he says, “Colorado. It’s likely Daphne still lives there.”

“So you’re just gonna walk up and knock on her door?”

“Yes.”

Dean shakes his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, man.”

“I do,” he says, shoulders straightening. “For the first time in a long time, I know what I’m doing. And it’s the right thing, Dean. This is the right thing.”

“I could tag along,” Dean offers, because he’s pretty certain that this is far from the right thing. “Be your wing man.” 

Cas smiles, shakes his head. “No, thank you. I need to clean up my own messes.”

And damn, but Dean remembers spitting those words at Cas when he’d still been so broken, so unforgiven. _Sonofabitch_ , he thinks. _You’re a goddam sonofabitch, Dean Winchester_. “Cas,” he says, taking a step forward and grimacing as Cas takes a reciprocal step back.

“Goodbye, Dean.” 

“You’ll come back.” It’s more an order than a question. “Cas, I’m not fucking around. Once you spill your guts to Mrs. Suburbia, you come back here. Okay?”

Cas hesitates, then nods. “Of course,” he says, but his gaze falls shy of Dean’s and he knows – he _knows_ – it’s a lie. 

“If you don’t,” Dean growls, “I will hunt you down, you fucking dick. I’m not kidding.”

Cas gives a slight smile. “Don’t worry,” he says, “that won’t be necessary.”

“It better not be.”

“It won’t,” Cas says. Then he turns and walks out the kitchen door and Dean has to fight not to run after him, not to haul him back and chain him up someplace, because the thought of Cas never coming back, of this being the last time—

“Cas!” he calls, running out into the war room in time to see Cas heading up the steps to the bunker door. 

Cas turns but doesn’t speak and Dean just stares at him, lost for words. Then Cas nods and keeps on walking, and Dean watches until the bunker door clangs shut with an echo that lingers long after Cas has gone.

4.

Castiel does not drive to Colorado.

He has nothing he can offer Daphne, not even the truth. How could he even begin to explain who or what he is? No, it’s better for her, better for everyone, if he completes the Trials as fast as possible and closes the gates of Hell. 

This will be his gift, to her, to Dean – to all the people he’s hurt along the way.

He has the relative pages from Kevin Tran’s translation safe in his pocket and all he needs to do is track down a hell hound. He knows places in this world where they prowl, and while it would have been quicker and easier if he’d still had his wings the task is far from impossible.

He sets a course south and starts to drive.


	2. Leave your heart and let your road be clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his stolen grace fading, Cas starts the trials to close the gates of Hell. He intends to make his inevitable death count for something. Dean, struggling to come to terms with his feelings for Cas, has other ideas.

5.

It's a couple days after Christmas, in the lull before the new year, when Sam finds the case. Dean's grateful; he needs a distraction from the regrets that have been circling since the night Cas left. He can't shake the feeling that things have shifted permanently, that irreparable damage has been done to something vital.

Besides, a case will get Sam off his back about why Cas left so suddenly. 

“ _El Cadejo_ ,” Sam says, glancing up over his laptop as Dean wanders into the kitchen. “Ever heard of it?”

“Not unless it's a bar,” Dean says with a smile designed to irritate.

Sam ignores him and says, “It's a dog, actually. Usually found in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and southern Mexico.”

Dogs. A lick of fear curls in the pit of his belly at the thought. “Usually?”

Sam's eyes lift again. “One's shown up dead just outside Brownsville.”

“Texas?”

“Right on the Mexican border. Its throat was cut.”

“A dead dog?” Dean drops into the chair opposite him. “Doesn't exactly sound like our kinda thing.”

Sam tips his head to one side. “Apparently it's as large as a cow, stinks of sulfur and urine, and has hooves instead of paws.” He swivels the laptop around so that Dean can see the picture. It's gross and he recoils from the gaping maw, its jagged teeth tipped with blood, the neat slice of a blade tearing out its throat. But the thing is huge, no doubting that, and those feet... “What the hell is it?” Dean asks, pushing the laptop back around. 

“Well, according to the lore,” Sam says, with a quick look at Dean, “ _El Cadejo_ is a, um, hellhound.”

“Freakin' awesome,” Dean sighs. “So how come we can see it?”

“It's – I guess you'd call it wild?” He pushes a file entitled 'Demonic Creatures and their Origins' toward Dean. “The _Cadejo_ are an ancient breed, perhaps some of the original hellhounds. There are legends all over the world about black dogs with flaming eyes preying on lone travelers, bringing omens of disaster, that kinda thing. Crowley's pets are, as I understand it, selectively bred for their specific task. But the _Cadejo_ are one of the original demonic creatures spawned by Hell.”

“Sounds great,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair. “But this one's dead, so case closed.”

“Maybe,” Sam says. “Except that, Dean, these things aren't easy to kill. Not with regular weapons.”

“So? A hunter must've taken it out.”

“Also this one was exsanguinated.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Exsanguinated?”

“Hung up and bled out, like something wanted its blood. However you look at it, that doesn't sound good.”

And he can't deny that. “Fine,” he says, “we'll check it out.”

“Cool,” Sam says, closing the lid on the laptop. “You, um, wanna call Cas, see if he knows anything? Or wants to tag along?”

“Nah,” Dean says. “We're good.”

“He might want to—”

“He won't,” he says, watching his fingers tap-tap on the table. “He's doing his own thing.”

“What thing?” Sam sounds suspicious. “Has he got a lead on Metatron or something?”

Dean shakes his head, but there's no real reason not to tell Sam except that he doesn't want to talk about it. Or think about it. 

“Dean?”

He sighs. “He's—” And it sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud. “He's gone looking for Daphne.”

Sam stares, blank. “Who?”

“Daphne? The woman he was—” He stops because, of course, Sam never met her, never knew Cas when he was 'Emmanuel'. “After the Leviathan thing,” he says, “she was the woman who took him in when he'd lost his memory. I told you about that, right?”

Sam nods. “Kinda. Her name was Daphne?”

“Yeah. Daphne Allen.”

“And Cas has gone to find her because...?”

Dean blinks a couple times. He's not sure why this makes him so uncomfortable. Or maybe he just doesn't want to think about why. “They were married,” he says, not looking at Sam. “She's kinda his wife.”

“ _What?_ ” Sam's staring in disbelief. “Cas is _married_?”

“Well, not really,” Dean says. “I mean, he hasn't seen her for a couple of years and he didn't even know who he was when they got hitched. I don't think it can be a legal thing, or anything. Dude wouldn't have had any kind of documentation.”

“That's not really the point,” Sam says. “He was married and— does she even know what he really is?”

Dean shakes his head. “Guess that's why he's gone to find her.”

“So he's...” Sam looks doubtful, watching Dean with a curious expression. “He loves her, or something?”

“I don't— Look, it's Cas,” he says, exasperated. “Who knows what's going on inside his nerdy head?”

“I do.” Sam looks surprised. “I mean most of the time. Guy's an open book, Dean.”

“You think? I never know what he's thinking.”

Sam gives a wry little smile. “I guess that figures.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Sam pushes to his feet and heads for the door. “I guess if Cas is busy we can handle this alone.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “It's just a dead dog. The size of a cow. With cloven feet. No biggie.”

“Just another Tuesday,” Sam smiles.

 

It's a sixteen hour drive to Brownsville and it's nearly three in the morning when they arrive, so they crash for a couple hours in the car and head out at nine the next morning to see the body. Although, they smell it long before they can see the thing – hidden as it is in a lot behind an Office Depot.

“God,” Dean almost gags as they pull into the parking lot. “That is gross.”

There's a police line around the thing, the yellow tape fluttering in a cold wind, but there's nobody around. Dean imagines Christmas and the stink are keeping any curious spectators away.

They park and get out the car, the stench even stronger. It's almost overpowering; Dean can feel his eyes start to water. “Dude,” he says, “seriously?”

Sam's jaw is set. “Let's just get this over with.”

They're just approaching the police line when someone calls out, “Hey, wait up.”

A police officer scrambles out of his squad car, holding a mask over his mouth and nose. “Y'all can't go back there.”

Dean pulls out his FBI badge. “Agent Lake. This is my partner, Agent Palmer.”

The cop glances at their badges and looks like he's trying not to breathe. Dean can't blame him; he's doing the same thing. “You folks come in numbers, huh?” he says and nods toward the back of the lot. “Your colleague's waiting for you.”

“Great,” Dean says, with a look at Sam.

“Thank you, Officer,” Sam says and they turn together toward the tape line as the cop retreats to his car. “Cas?” Sam suggests and Dean tries to ignore an odd flutter of hope.

But as they round the corner, hope disappears entirely. It's not Cas.

“Hello boys,” Crowley says. “Not like you to be late to the wake.”

Dean sighs. “What are you doing here?”

“I've come to pay my respects,” he says, turning away from the stinking – and legitimately huge – corpse of the dog. “She was one of a kind.” He takes a step closer to them, all cold-eyed scrutiny. “Not your handy-work, I take it?”

Dean glances past him at the creature and represses a shudder. The thing is enormous; he can't imagine taking it on and surviving.

“Could a werewolf have done it?” Sam asks, squinting past Crowley toward the dog. “Or maybe a pack of them?”

Crowley scoffs. “Werewolves? Be serious. You think some skanky dog-man could kill _El Cadejo_? Please.”

“Its throat's been torn out.”

“ _Her_ throat was slit,” Crowley corrects. “With a blade.” He tips his head. “An angel blade, to be precise.”

Dean throws a glance at Sam. “Angel blades are a dime a dozen these days,” he says. “Doesn't prove anything.” 

Crowley acknowledges that with a shrug. “There are footprints,” he says, jerking his head toward the corpse. “Human ones.”

Dean can see them and takes a couple steps closer, crouching down to get a better look. At this distance the stench is so bad he has to cover his mouth against the roiling of his stomach. There's a wide bloodstain on the asphalt and footprints leading away. They're at least as large as Dean's, definitely male, but that's about all he can tell beyond the fact that, whoever made the kill, came away bloody. 

“No one saw anything?” Dean says, standing up. “Dude would have been covered in blood.”

“Humans,” Crowley sighs. “Pathetically unobservant.” 

“What do you think they wanted with the blood?” Sam says, fidgeting the way he does when he's uncomfortable.

“Well done, Moose. The pertinent question at last.”

“You got a pertinent answer?” 

Crowley smiles his cold smile. “I'll make some inquiries. I suggest you do the same.” 

And then he's gone and they're alone with the dead dog. It's shifting a little, Dean notices, as if it's rotting before their eyes. “Let's get outa here,” he says. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, looking kinda green. “Sounds like a plan.”

Halfway home, Sam says, “What do you think anyone would need with hellhound blood?”

“Nothing good.”

“I mean – I'm thinking a spell, right?”

“Probably.”

Sam goes silent for a while, sinking into thought. Dean resists the urge to call Cas, to run the weird-ass situation past him and get his take on it. Cas knows a lot of crazy shit, and it's always reassuring to have him around when they--

But Cas made his position clear; he needs time away from Dean because – and Dean can't even think about it without his insides twisting into indecipherable knots – because of his 'feelings'. His feelings for Dean. As in _feelings_ feelings. And, since that's at least twice as crazy as the dead hellhound, Dean's not asshole enough to steamroller over Cas's needs with his own problems. Not yet, anyway. If it turns out that this is the precursor to some new apocalypse then all bets are off, but for now Dean thinks they can handle it.

And if he misses Cas then that's no one's business but his own.

***

It takes half an hour under the hottest water the motel can provide, and every one of the mini-bottles of shampoo, to get the stench of the _Cadejo_ out of Castiel's hair and skin. The first trial is already taking its toll, his grace now thready and thin in his veins, and he doesn't dare waste any of it on cleaning himself, not when the next trial must take him to Hell.

Of the three, this will prove the most challenging. But if Sam can do it, then so can Castiel. He might not be much of an angel these days, but he's still more than mortal. More powerful than a man, at least.

Ignoring the tightness in his chest, the dizziness as he steps out of the shower, Castiel dresses in clean clothes – some of the few he collected during his time as a human. His suit and coat are in a dumpster, ruined beyond redemption by the blood of the _Cadejo_ , and when he catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror he sees Clarence or Steve looking back. He looks human again and wonders what Dean would think if he saw him like this, and then he remembers that it doesn't matter because they’ll never meet again. He'll die completing the trials, or die trying, and distracting himself with thoughts of Dean Winchester certainly won't help him complete his mission.

Even so, his eyes drift to his phone. It would be so easy to send a message, to make a call. To hear Dean's voice again, while he still can. He closes his eyes against the temptation, takes a breath, and picks up Kevin's translation from the nightstand. 

_Raise an innocent soul from Hell and to deliver it unto Heaven._

With the gates to Heaven locked it won't be as easy as it was for Sam, but he can at least deliver the soul to the gates. If Metatron's angels won't let it in, that's their choice, but he hopes it will be enough to satisfy the spell. 

It had taken some thought, some research, and an unpleasant encounter with a Reaper to find the soul he needs. But at least now he knows who he's going to raise. He's going to raise April Kelly, condemned to Hell by Bartholomew alongside the Reaper who possessed her when the Reaper failed to kill Castiel. Cas is going to raise April, deliver her soul to Heaven, and make amends for inadvertently being the reason she was killed in the first place. As Dean might say, it's a 'win-win' situation.

But it won't be easy. When he'd raised Dean, he'd had an army at his back. When he'd raised Sam, he'd somehow managed to leave his soul behind. This time, there'll be no army and there can be no mistakes. His grace will last, he hopes, long enough to allow him to enter and leave Crowley's kingdom – but there will be no second chance. When he gets back he'll be weak, dying. He won't have long to summon Meg and cure her before his grace burns out. He just hopes that she's willing to be saved, and that her willingness will make things easier.

He coughs, tastes blood in the back of his throat, and retreats to the cold motel bed. He'll sleep now, rest his weakening body, and in the morning he'll travel to Hell.

That night, when he dreams, it's of Dean's soul – bright with hope amid the grotesque despair of the demons. He dreams of the moment he grasps Dean tight, of the way his grace wraps around and through his soul, and when he wakes he's hollow with longing.

Hell, he thinks, will be a welcome respite.

6.

Dean drags the Christmas tree out of the bunker a couple days before New Year’s. No point in keeping the thing hanging about, he tells Sam, who responds with some crap about Christmas lasting twelve days and not really being over until January 6th.

Whatever.

He's not going to tell Sam the real reason he wants the thing gone, which is because it reminds him too much of Cas. Of that night when he'd... when they'd... He can't think about that, about how the sudden flare of desire had scared the crap out of him – about how it _still_ scares the crap out of him. Or about the way Cas had looked, about the way Dean had made him look: hurt, distressed, confused. And definitely not about the way those Christmas light keep appearing in his dreams, the way they gleam before his eyes as he kisses … someone. In his dream, he can never see who it is, he just feels warm, at peace. Happy. And then he wakes up and he's none of those things.

He's brushing pine needles off his jacket sleeves, swinging the bunker door closed behind him, when Sam calls up, “Hey, Garth found us a case!”

“Yeah? Better not be another dead dog.”

“No,” Sam says, scanning his email. “It's someone come back from the dead.”

“Demon?” he suggests, trotting down the stairs. “Or some angel crap?”

“Not sure,” Sam says. “A woman in Detroit turned up at her sister's house yesterday, after being buried back in October.”

“Zombie,” Dean says with a sigh. “Man, I hate those fuckers.”

“Yeah, I don't know,” Sam says. “But, uh, there's something about her... She looks kinda familiar.”

Dean comes around to peer over Sam's shoulder. There's a photo on the news site, a snapshot of a blonde woman with the caption 'April Kelley died in a robbery, October 2013'. Dean says, “Shit” and straightens up like he's been shot.

“You know her?” Sam turns in his seat to look at him. “Dean?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She's – shit, Sammy. That's the Reaper who killed Cas.”

Sam's eyes go wide with recognition. “Oh my God, yes,” he says, swinging back around to look at the photo. “You're right. October, that was when we--”

“When I ganked the Reaper, yeah.”

“And now she's back – apparently.”

“That's not good,” Dean says. “That's – I don't even know what that is. How is she back?”

Sam shuts the laptop. “I guess we'd better go find out.”

 

April Kelly's sister lives in a pretty average looking house in Dearborn. Unlike the rest of the street, there are no Christmas lights outside her home, which Dean supposes is no surprise given that the woman's sister had died just a couple months back. 

It's morning when they ring the doorbell, and it's answered by a voice shouting through the door. “We're not talking to the press.”

“That's okay, ma'am,” Sam says, fishing out his ID. “We're not press.”

He holds up his Fed ID to the peephole and Dean follows suit. “We'd just like a couple words with April,” he says. “We won't keep her long.”

After a moment, the door opens a crack and a young woman looks out. She's cagey and pale and not April Kelly. “FBI?” she says, glancing at their IDs, and then past them to the street.

“It's no trick,” Dean assures her. “We're not with the press or anything like that.”

She lets out a breath. “Then I guess you'd better come in.”

The house is neat and they find April sitting with her legs curled up in the corner of a large white sofa, a book open on her lap. Dean has to fight the instinct not to reach for his gun, the memory of that day – of this woman sliding a blade into Castiel's gut – suddenly raw, stealing his breath.

“April,” her sister says as she shows them in, “they're from the FBI.”

April looks alarmed, but Sam lifts a hand and offers his most reassuring smile. “Please,” he says, “we just want to ask you a couple of questions.” 

He glances at Dean, and perhaps sees something off about his expression because he carries on, “Can we sit down?”

April nods and Dean forces himself to take a breath; it wasn't this woman, it was the Reaper possessing her. Cas is alive, he's an angel again. It's all okay. He clears his throat. “We, ah, just want to know what you remember about what happened.”

“It's not a hoax,” April says right away. “I'm not faking anything.”

“No,” Dean agrees. “I know. I mean, we believe you.”

“Can you tell us what you remember?” Sam prompts, perched on the edge of his chair and looking too large for the pastel, feminine room. 

April shakes her head. “Not much,” she says. “I remember going to work, and then … I woke up in the grave yard.”

“In a grave?” Dean asks, because he knows what that shit's like and he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

“No, just lying on the ground,” April says, although her fingers are shaking where they're touching the book and her sister joins her on the sofa, putting a hand on her back. She doesn't speak, but shoots an accusatory glare at Dean.

He ignores it. 

Sam says, “Okay, so you remember going to work … And that was when?”

“I think— I think it must have been right before, I--” She glances at her sister. “Before I died.”

“Is there anything else you remember?” Sam presses. “However random. Like, for example, the smell of sulfur or cold spots or anything like that?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Um, except – there was this guy. A homeless guy? It was on my way into work, he was looking for food in one of the dumpsters. I felt bad so I gave him my lunch. That's – really that's the last thing I remember. I gave him my lunch, then went into work and the next thing I know I'm staring up at the sky and it's three months later.”

Dean's mouth has gone dry. “Homeless guy?” 

“Around the back of the restaurant,” she says. “He was hungry and the diner throws out a lot. There's always so much waste.” 

“Can you describe him?” Sam says.

“Sure, um, dark hair. Unshaven. A white guy – about your height,” she says to Dean. “He was wearing a hoodie, I think. Maybe a blue shirt?”

Dean nods. “Okay.” And that sounds like Cas, how Cas had looked when they'd found him.

“Oh, and real blue eyes,” she adds. “I remember thinking that. Proper blue, you know? Not gray like most people.”

Dean nods again, but all he can think of now is Cas being so hungry he was dumpster diving for food. And how Dean hadn't helped him, hadn't been there for him at all. He thinks it's a miracle Cas wants anything to do with him, let alone feeling... “Okay,” he says out loud, clearing his throat. “Right.”

“But I don't think he had anything to do with whatever happened,” April says. “He was real nice. Kinda sweet, actually. So grateful when I gave him my PBJ.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats, swallowing hard against the mental picture. “Sure.” 

“And when you woke up in the graveyard?” Sam says. “There was no one there then?”

She shakes her head. “No, I was alone.”

Dean darts a look at Sam, who gets to his feet. “Well, thanks for your time, Miss Kelly. We'll be in touch if we need anything else.”

“Do you have any idea what might have happened to me?” she asks before they leave, more than a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Truthfully?” Sam says. “No. Just – I guess, sometimes miracles really do happen.”

After the front door closes behind them, Dean says, “Really? Miracles happen?”

“What did you want me to say?”

He's got no answer to that, given that they have no answers themselves. “At least she's not a zombie, I guess,” he says, changing the subject as they head toward the Impala.

“There's that,” Sam concedes. “Although I wondered if—”

“Well, well,” an unwelcome voice says from behind them, “fancy seeing you two here.”

Dean turns, fingers itching for his weapon. “What, are you stalking us now, Crowley?”

“Don't get your hopes up,” he says. “I take it you've spoken to Little Miss Sweetness and Light in there?”

“And what's your interest in her?”

“What's my interest?” He tips his head to the side in disbelief. “King of Hell, remember?”

“I thought there was some debate over that,” Dean says with a smile.

Crowley just scowls. “If someone steals one of my souls, I know about it. And then I want to know _more_ about it.”

“Wait,” Sam says. “One of _your_ souls? April was in Hell?”

“A trifle unfair, perhaps,” he admits. “But beggars can't be choosers, and if Bart wants to send me a Reaper and its meatsuit, who am I to object?”

“But what--”

“The bigger questions here, Moose, are who and why. Who stole a soul from Hell, and why do they want it?”

“I take it you have some ideas?”

“Not a clue.”

Dean offers a flat smile. “Well, good talk.” He turns back to the car.

“Ah.” Crowley says. “One question before you bugger off.”

Dean doesn't turn around. “What?”

“Where's your angel?”

Dean glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Come on,” Crowley says. “You think I was born yesterday?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” 

Crowley returns his look, giving nothing away. “If you say so.”

“I—” But Crowley doesn't hang around to hear his retort, nothing but empty space and the faint stench of sulfur in his wake. Dean frowns. “What the hell?” 

But Sam looks pensive. “Get in the car. Let’s go.”

“What is it?” Dean demands as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the Kellys' little house disappearing behind them. 

“I don't know,” Sam says after a pause. “Maybe nothing.”

Dean throws him a look. “Maybe something. Come on, spill.”

“I just— There are parallels, right?”

“With what?”

“With— Dean, it's obvious. The dead hellhound, raising a soul from Hell...”

It hits him like a bolt. “The trials?”

“Right.”

“You think someone else is trying to close the gates of Hell?”

“The pattern fits. Bathe in the blood of a hellhound, raise an innocent soul from Hell. April _was_ innocent, Dean.”

“Huh.” Dean can't repress a smile. “Well, cool, I guess.”

“Cool?”

“Uh, yeah? Closing the gates of Hell, Sammy.”

“At the price of someone’s life.”

“Better theirs than yours.”

There's a tight silence.

“Come on,” Dean says. “This is a good thing.”

“It's not—” Sam starts again. “I'd have made that sacrifice, Dean. Happily.”

And they've been through this, _ad nauseam_. “I know.”

“And now someone else is going to do it instead, because I didn't. Because—”

“I _know_ ,” Dean repeats. “And you know what? I don't care. Like I said, better them than you. I know it's selfish, but there you have it.”

“It just feels like— Like it should have been me.”

“Plenty of other monsters to fight, Sam.” Dean puts his foot on the gas as he accelerates onto the interstate. “And no better hunter than you.” He pauses. “Except me, of course.”

“Right.” He can't see it, but he can hear the roll of Sam's eyes in his voice. 

“I'm just sayin' that it wasn't your fate or whatever. You still got work to do, dude.”

Sam's silent, processing. After a while he says, “So who do you think _is_ doing it?”

“Metatron has the demon tablet, so go figure.”

“You think he's conned some hapless guy into sacrificing his life? Just like he did Cas?”

“Maybe,” Dean concedes, and yeah it's not a great thought. “But, Sam, I'm not gonna lose sleep over someone closing the gates to Hell. There are worse things to die for.”

Another silence, then, “You think Crowley's guessed?”

“The guy's a creepy sonofabitch, but no one ever called him dumb.”

“He thinks it's Cas,” Sam says, figuring it out. “That's what he meant earlier. He thinks Metatron's convinced Cas to close Hell the way he closed Heaven.”

Dean snorts. “Right, like Cas would _ever_ trust Metatron again.”

Sam concedes the point with a _hmmm_ and they're silent again, leaving Dean's thoughts to wander as he drives. Inevitably they wander toward Cas.

He must still be in Colorado, Dean figures, and the thought of him playing happy families, or whatever, with Daphne Allen draws a tight line of tension across his shoulders. There's something wrong about it in a way he can't pinpoint, it needles him. Not that he doesn't want Cas to find companionship, to have some place to call home, it's just that it shouldn't be with some holy roller like Daphne Allen. She'd never appreciate Cas's wry commentary on the world, his obscure sense of humor, his quiet heroism. How could she? Daphne's not a hunter, she's not part of their world. To her, he's some kind of mystical faith healer. 'Special' she'd called him, all reverent and misty-eyed. But that's not it, that's not Cas. He's not 'special', he's a freakin' badass. He's literally awesome, all raw power and grace. He’s irritable, nerdy, and _kind_. Gentle sometimes, icy and implacable others. He's a lightning storm in a jar. He's selfless, he heroic, he's--

Lonely.

The word springs out of nowhere, trailing a memory: Christmas day, Cas talking about all the sad and lonely people in the world, about how he'd been one of them. Then Cas dead at the hands of a Reaper wearing April Kelly's face. Cas ignored by Nora. Cas looking for affection in all the wrong places. 

And then there's that night... That not-really-kiss he doesn't think about, the uneasy frisson the memory stirs under his skin, a low static charge. Embarrassment, awkwardness: he tells himself that's all it is. But perhaps he's been thinking too much today, or perhaps it's a hangover from the dreams, because now he remembers something else – a split-second of peace, of serenity, of belonging. Of that hollow space in his chest filled up to overflowing.

And it aches now, that space, with a longing he can't pinpoint. A voiceless need for something out of reach, something impossible – something he dare not let himself imagine.

“Dean?”

Startled back to himself, he sees Sam looking at him. “What?”

“We just passed our exit.”

“What? Crap.”

“Dude, you want me to take over? You're zoning out.”

“No I'm good. I was just—” He shakes his head. Shit. “I'm hungry,” he decides. “Let's get lunch.”

Later, while they're eating, Sam says, “You know, I gotta check Kevin's notes because if this is someone doing the trials then there are some differences.”

“Like the stinky hellhound?” Dean says around a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger.

“Right, and like when we freed Bobby's soul he went straight up there.” He rolls his eyes Heaven-ward. “But April, she's alive... I gotta check the exact words, but didn't it say 'delivered to Heaven' or something? And Heaven's closed.”

“Not to Metatron. And he's got the tablet, so I guess he's read the fine print.”

“ _If_ it's Metatron. If that's even what's happening here.” Sam shrugs. “There could be other spells that need the blood of a hellhound and a soul raised from Hell.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, although he's doubtful. “Worth checking out, I guess.”

“Yeah, worth checking out.”

***

Castiel's plan is to get as far from Detroit as possible, up toward the more sparsely populated areas around the lakes in case something goes wrong with the demon summoning spell. But he can't.

Raising April's soul from Hell and delivering it unto Heaven proves more challenging than anticipated. 

Of course, Heaven's gates are closed and Metatron's angels aren't letting anything in, but the soul _has_ been delivered – even if it hasn't been accepted – and that proves good enough for the spell. It almost finishes him, though, power ripping through his all-but-human veins as he recites the Enochian incantation, leaving him ragged and spitting blood onto the frozen ground. 

And it leaves him with another problem too; April's soul has been rendered homeless. In the end he has no choice but to return it to her mortal body, erasing the memories of Hell and how she'd gotten there, of how she'd returned. The effort involved costs him dearly, drains all but the last wisps of his grace. He barely sews her soul into her new-made body, barely stumbles back to his car before she wakes. And he barely makes it to the closest motel before he collapses, missing the bed, onto the room's grimy carpet. 

He's in no doubt that he's dying. His only concern is completing the final trial in time; he's cutting it closer than he'd hoped. 

He sleeps for two days after raising April, waking only to cough up blood and sip water. On the third day he makes himself get up, go to the car and drag in the bag he'd prepared. The ingredients he needs for the summoning spell are inside, along with the consecrated human blood. All he needs now is Meg.

He thinks of Dean all the time, he can't help himself. He hopes that Dean will understand, that he'll be proud of what he's made of his death. Of the good he's done in the end. That he'll remember that Castiel died well and forget the mistakes he made along the road. 

Hands shaking, he starts to pull what he needs from the bag and prepares to summon a demon.

***

Sam drives the rest of the way home and Dean sleeps, eyes opening only as the car pulls up in front of the bunker. 

“Hey,” Sam says, shaking his shoulder, “wake up sleeping beauty.”

Dean yawns, stretches and rubs at his eyes. Actually he feels like he's had a pretty decent night's sleep. Sam on the other hand looks exhausted. “Dude,” Dean says, “you should have woken me up.”

“Nah, I'm fine.”

“Yeah, you look it.”

Sam shrugs and unfolds himself out of the car, stretching his back as he tips his face up toward the winter sun. “Almost New Year’s,” he says apropos of nothing.

Dean doesn't reply; he's always hated New Year’s. Just a big fuss over nothing, another crappy year gone and more trouble ahead. He doesn't see what there is to celebrate. “Go on inside,” he says, “I'll grab our stuff.”

He takes his time unloading the car, straightening out the trunk, pulling their crap out of the front seat. He'll probably drive her down to the garage later, give her a good wash, but for now she'll be okay out front. Grabbing both his and Sam's bags, he heads down to the door and shoulders it open. He's halfway down the steps into the bunker when Sam emerges, ashen-faced, into the war room.

“Dean,” he says, stricken. 

“Jesus, what?” They've literally just got back, what could possibly have gone wrong already?

Sam holds something up as Dean hauls their crap downstairs. It's Kevin's journal, his translation of the demon tablet. “It's missing,” Sam says, opening the journal on the war room table.

“What's missing?” Dean dumps their bags and walks over, peeling off his jacket.

“The Enochian spell.”

He's not getting it, pulls the book toward him. “What spell? What--”

“The one to close the gates of Hell, the one you say after you complete each trial.”

“But...” Dean stares at him, uncomprehending. Or perhaps he's just in denial; his heartbeat has kicked up a notch, thumping in his chest like it knows something he doesn't. “I don't get it, who could have...?”

“Dean, there's only one person.”

He shakes his head. “No. ”

“Think about it. Who else could it be? Who else has been here?”

“Gadreel?”

Sam looks at him like he's a moron. “Gadreel has the demon tablet, Dean. He doesn't need the translation.”

“But why would—” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “You're saying Cas took it, right?”

“There's no one else,” Sam says, sinking onto a chair. He's exhausted, looks shattered. “Dean, it can only be Cas.”

“But why--”

“Because he's doing the trials. Dean, it's obvious. Bathe in the blood of a hellhound, save a soul from Hell.” He shakes his head, jams his fingers into his hair. “April Kelly. Who else would have even known about her, Dean? Not Metatron.”

“Shit,” Dean says, it's all he can get past the sudden knot in his throat. “ _Fuck_.” Then he's scrabbling for his cell, fingers shaking as he calls up Cas's name and hits dial. It rings out, goes to voicemail. “Fuck,” he growls again, and stabs out a message: _call me it's urgent._

Sam's looking up at him with tired concern. “Dean, if he's already started the third trial...”

“I know,” Dean says; it might already be too late. “But we'd know if the gates had been closed, right?”

Sam shrugs. “I don't know. Would we?”

“Shit.” He thinks for a moment, forcing his thoughts onto practical paths – what to do next, how to stop this. It's better than letting them twist around the tight pain in his chest, the breathless panic in his lungs at the thought that it might already be too late. That Cas might be dead. He actually feels it as a punch, curls around the sudden pain.

“Dean?” Sam half reaches across the table.

“Crowley,” he growls in response. “He'd know.”

“You want to summon him?”

“It's in his interest to stop this.”

Sam hesitates. “Dean...”

And Dean's staring at him then, the unspoken question hanging between them. “Sam,” he says, the word rasping out of his throat. “We have to.”

“I don't want to lose Cas,” Sam says. “God knows I'd rather it was me, but we have no way to kill Abadon and this... This is the answer, Dean. Cas knows that.”

“No.” Dean pushes hard to his feet. “The fuck, Sam? This is _Cas_.”

“I know,” Sam says. “Believe me, Dean, I know. But Cas is a soldier and he's been fighting this war a hell of a lot longer than us. And this is the endgame. He can close Hell, trap Abadon, Crowley – all of them – forever. Why would we want to take that from him?”

“Because it's Cas! He's family, Sam. He's fucking family.”

“It doesn't matter,” Sam says, and there are tears in his eyes but he's saying it anyway. “That's not enough of a reason. It never was, Dean. It was never enough of a reason.”

And he's right, Dean knows he's right, but he doesn't care. “We'll find another way,” he says, heading for the door. 

“Dean!”

“I can't,” he snaps, whirling around. “I just. _I can't_ , Sam. I can't lose him.”

Sam, half risen from the table, stops dead. “Okay,” he says slowly, sinking back into the chair with a look like revelation. “Okay. I get it.”

“Sam--”

“No, I do. I get it, Dean. Cas is... You and him, what you share, it's profound. I get that.”

Dean just stares at him, not sure what Sam's implying – not sure that he isn't right. He just knows that if Cas dies some part of him will die too and he's not sure that what's left would be worth much of anything. “It should've been me,” he says, rough-voiced. “I should've done it myself in the first place.”

Sam gives a wry smile. “Like I'd have let you. Like Cas would've.”

“Then I guess we're all pretty fucked.” 

With a bleak laugh, Sam pushes himself to his feet. “So – any idea where we'll find him?”

“Detroit,” Dean says. “If he's anything like you were after the second trial he won't have gotten far.”

“Detroit's a big place.”

“Then I guess we'll need some help.”

Sam's eyebrows rise. “Crowley?”

“If you got a better idea, I'm listening.”

With a sigh, Sam just shakes his head. “Let's do it.”  


It takes an hour to gather what they need and to summon Crowley. He doesn't look surprised, or particularly irritated, when he materializes inside the dungeon's Devil trap. In fact he looks relieved when they explain the situation. “I assume you're planning to stop your boyfriend's act of mindless heroism?” 

Dean just says “Can you find him?” and ignores the rest.

“Maybe. What's it worth to you?”

Sam laughs. “You've got to be kidding me. You're in no position to negotiate, Crowley. If Cas succeeds, it's game over for you.”

“Which makes me wonder why you'd want to stop him.” His cool gaze slides to Dean. “Unless you just can't live without him?”

“Fuck you,” Dean says. “Can you tell us where he is or not?”

Crowley glances around the dungeon, inspects his nails. “I won't tell you,” he says. “But let me out of here and I'll take you there myself.”

“Crowley—”

“Faster than the piece of junk you drive, Dean, and time is of the essence after all. I doubt poor Castiel has long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ask Sam. The trials take their toll on anyone, but Castiel was on borrowed time when he started. Or should I say _stolen_ time?”

Dean's panic ratchets up another notch. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“His stolen grace, it's burning out. And when it's gone, so's he. Between that and the effects of the trials I'd be surprised if he was still on his feet. Maybe he's not?”

“Fine,” Dean says, and moves to break the Devil's trap. 

“Wait.” Sam puts a hand on his arm. “Why should we trust you, Crowley? You could take us anywhere and send someone else to kill Cas.”

Crowley's face blanks for a moment, then he says, “I don't want Castiel dead; he's more use to me alive. And so are you. That bitch is still running around trying to steel my kingdom and I need all the friends I can get.”

“We're not your friends,” Dean says. “Neither's Cas.”

“My enemy's enemies, then. Look, like it or not, we're in this together. You want to save your feathery friend and I want to stop him locking the doors to Hell. It's in all our interests to work together.” He smiles again, cold as the grave. “Dreadful shame if you got there too late.”

“Yeah, for you,” Dean snaps.

“Worse for you, lover boy, with all those pesky human _feelings._ Such pain in the arse, I don't know how you live with them.”

Dean ignores him, fixes his eyes on Sam. His brother just shrugs, “It's your call.”

“Tick-tock,” says Crowley. 

And Dean snaps, makes the decision and throws the consequences to the dogs. “Fine,” he says, scrubbing the toe of his boot through the Devil trap. “Let's go.”

Crowley slides a sly glance at Sam. “See you around, Moose,” he says, before he grabs Dean's arm.

Dean hears Sam's protest cut short and then he's standing under glowering skies in the parking lot of a crappy motel. 

“I see Castiel learned his taste in accommodation from you,” Crowley says, brushing at his jacket in distaste. 

“Whatever. Which room?”

Crowley looks, and then points off to their left. “That one smells especially self-righteous. Can't you feel it?”

Dean doesn't answer; he's already moving. The blinds are drawn down over the room's window and he can't see in, so he just raps on the door. “Cas?” There's no answer. “Cas, open up.”

He's about to put his shoulder to the door when Crowley reaches past him and touches the handle. “Allow me,” he says, and the door clicks open. 

Dean bolts into the room. It's dark and smoky with magic, with spell casting. He sees several things all at once: a Devil's trap sprayed onto the floor, a scorched crucible, a handful of Ziploc bags spilling spell ingredients onto the carpet. And Cas.

He's on his knees, his back to the door, head bowed over the crucible. He's swaying, unsteady, and murmuring words Dean barely catches. “... _esto subjecto voluntati…_ ”

“Cas!” He grabs his shoulder, pulling him around.

Startled, Cas scrambles out of his grip, angel blade in his hand. “Don't touch—” He blinks like he's in a dream, like he can't quite make sense of what he's seeing. “ _Dean_?”

“The fuck, Cas?” Dean says, but it comes out more desperate than angry. Cas looks awful, his dark hair and eyes stark against ashen skin, sallow and exhausted. Dean has to resist the urge to shake some life back into him.

“Why are you here?” Cas says, struggling to his feet – he has to hold onto the wall, bracing himself as he stands. “Why's _he_ here?” His gaze darts past Dean, to the doorway.

“To stop you,” Dean says, gesturing to the detritus on the floor. 

“You're working with Crowley?” His face creases, confused and defeated. “Why?”

“Because— Cas, this isn't the way.”

“Yes it is.”

Dean takes a step closer, aware of Crowley hovering behind him. His skin prickles and he turns, looks over his shoulder. “Wait outside,” he says.

Crowley's eyebrows rise. “Why? You boys need some alone time?”

“Just fuck off, Crowley.”

His lips twist into a smile. “Don't do anything I wouldn't.”

Dean ignores him, turns back to Cas. “I can't let you do this.”

Cas has his back to the wall now, nowhere to go, but his jaw is set stubborn despite the fact that he looks like he can barely stand. “Why not? Dean, it's the only way to stop Abadon.”

“We'll find another way.”

“Why? This one's right here. I just have to—” He rubs at his forehead. “I'm trying to summon Meg, but it's not working. I don't know whether she--”

“Meg?” Dean says, confused. “Dude, Meg died. Crowley killed her.”

“What?” He looks stunned, sagging against the wall like the fight went out of him. “When?”

“Um – almost a year ago. Outside Lucifer's crypt, that night.”

Cas's eyes are wide with shock. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You fucked off, remember? After you beat the crap outa me and stole the angel tablet.”

“I—” He shakes his head. “That wasn't—” And then, “I can't believe you didn't _tell me_ , Dean.”

“Cas, so what? Meg was a _demon._ ” 

“She was my friend!”

Dean has to close his eyes at that, at all the different levels of loneliness it implies. “Cas,” he says, “ _I'm_ your friend. _Sam's_ your friend. Meg was just—”

“She was my friend,” Cas insists, weary to the bone. “She liked— Well, it doesn't matter now. We just need another demon. Crowley will do if--”

“Not gonna happen.”

Cas pushes off the wall, tries to get past, but Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Even through the thin t-shirt Cas is wearing, Dean can feel the burn of fever. “I'm not gonna let you die here.”

“I'm dying anyway,” he snaps. “At least this way it'll mean something.”

Dean tightens his grip on Cas's shoulder, solid and real beneath his fingers. “I won't let you die.”

“You can't stop it.”

“The hell I can't.”

“My grace– Dean there's nothing you can do. But you _can_ help me finish the trials. I'm so close. ”

Dean shakes his head. His whole body is shaking and the hand on Cas's shoulder tightens until he thinks he must be leaving bruises. “I _can't,_ ” he says. “I won't.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” But he can't voice the answer, can't think about why he'd rather die himself than lose Cas, why he'd rather fight Abaddon, rather leave the gates of Hell standing wide open. Why the thought of watching Cas die makes him frantic. “I just can't, okay?”

“That's no answer,” Cas growls, pushing at Dean's arm. But he's weak – Dean's never known him so weak, not even when he was human. “Please,” Cas says, desperate now. “I don't have much time. Help me do this, Dean, help me do some _good_.”

“No,” Dean says. “We'll find another way.”

“There _is_ no other way!” His eyes spit fire, but his face turns suddenly milky. “It's the only—” He stumbles. “Dean, it's—” And then his legs crumple and Dean barely manages to catch him before he hits the floor. 

His weight pulls them both down. “Come on.” Dean shakes him. “Come on, stay with me, man.”

“Dean...” 

And then his eyes roll back and he's gone. “Cas!” Dean presses his fingers to throat and sags with relief when he feels a pulse, even if it fast and thready. “Crowley!” he yells. “Get in here.”

“Sure I'm not interrupting?” Crowley drawls from the doorway.

“Help me,” Dean barks, laying Cas on the floor, gentling his head onto the carpet and pulling him onto his side in case he throws up. He's coughing weakly, a little blood trickling from between his lips. 

Crowley takes a step closer, sucks air through his teeth as he peers over Dean's shoulder. “Nasty.” 

“You want me on your side against Abaddon?” Dean says, his eyes locked onto Cas and his back to Crowley. “Then save him.”

“That's a big ask.”

“Those are the terms: my help against Abaddon for Cas's life.”

“No matter the cost?”

Dean's heart jolts in warning, but he plows on regardless. “No matter the cost.”

“Deal,” Crowley says. “Normally I'd seal it with a kiss, but under the circumstances...” His hand lands on Dean's shoulder. “Put him to bed, I'll bring you what he needs.”

Dean blinks and finds himself kneeling in the dirt outside the bunker, Cas sprawled on the ground next to him. In the cold afternoon light Cas looks gray as death, incongruous in a t-shirt and jeans. Dean presses his hand to his face, just to assure himself that he's still alive – he is, he's burning with fever – and for a moment Dean just sits there letting an avalanche of feeling crash over him: relief, fear, guilt, hope, confusion. 

He's stopped the trials, Hell remains open. Cas is dying, Crowley can save him.

He's done a deal with the King of Hell to save a man's life - to save Castiel's life – because it turns out there's nothing he wouldn't do for him, no line he wouldn't cross. He figures that has to mean something, but he's too chicken-shit to go looking for the answer. Besides, all that matters now is that Crowley succeeds, that Cas survives.

It's all that matters to Dean, anyway. Right now, it's the only thing in the world that matters to him.

Cas hasn't stirred, he's lying still as a corpse on the cold ground. Dean presses his hand to his cheek again, just to feel the fever burn and not the cold flesh of the dead. He lets his thumb brush over Cas's cheekbone, threads fingers through his hair where it's stirred by the December wind. His heart feels like it's going to pound right out of his chest. “C'mon, buddy,” he murmurs. “Hang in there.” And then he climbs to his feet, hauls Cas into a sitting position and wedges his shoulder under him, hoisting him up over his shoulder.

“Sam!” he yells as he heads for the bunker. “Sam, open the door!”


	3. A brave new year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a choice - walk away, or man up and deal with his feelings for Castiel.

Three hours after Crowley sent them back to the bunker, Cas is still out cold. He's lying on Dean's bed and hasn't moved since he and Sam carried him there. The only reason Dean knows he's still breathing is because he's sitting so close he can see the slight rise and fall of his chest.

“Maybe we should take him to the hospital?” Sam ventures from the doorway.

“Ain't nothing they can do.”

“But maybe—”

“Sam, this is just like you after the last trial. Hospital can't help.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise. “But Crowley can?”

Dean fidgets in his chair, pulling it closer to the bed. “Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but he's what we got.”

“Do we?” Sam says. “Because I don't see him.”

“He'll be here.”

Sam's silent for a beat, then says, “Out of the goodness of his heart, I suppose?”

Ignoring the question, Dean says, “Just stay close to the door, will you? He can't zap in here. He'll have to knock.”

Sam says nothing, very eloquently, and leaves. If he's guessed about the deal then so be it; Dean has no regrets. Cas's life is worth any price, and a helluva lot more than his own. Whatever they are, he can live with the consequences of his choice.

Hunching forward, elbows on knees, he drops his head into his hands and closes his eyes. But it doesn't help; all he can see are Christmas lights, their soft glow reflecting in Cas's eyes as he leans closer, fond and warm and hopeful. Dean can almost taste the memory, can almost reach out and recapture that breathless moment before he'd fucked everything up.

“Dean?”

His head shoots up, out of the dreamscape. Cas is staring at him through confused, fevered eyes.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting forward. “You're awake.”

Cas licks his dry lips. “I have to find Meg.”

“It's okay,” Dean says, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. “You need a drink?”

“I have to cure her,” he says, trying to sit. “Make amends.”

“Not now.” Dean presses him back into the mattress with a hand on his chest. Cas doesn't struggle but Dean leaves his hand there anyway, feeling the racing beat of Cas’s heart beneath his palm. “Just take it easy, man.”

“So much harm,” Cas mutters, eyes fluttering closed again. “So much blood.”

“So much good,” Dean reminds him, his voice thick with all the things he's never said. He reaches out with his other hand, closes it around Cas's fingers where they lay still on the bed. “You saved the world, Cas. Remember that.”

If he hears, Cas doesn't respond; he’s sinking back into oblivion. Dean keeps hold of his hand, rubs a thumb over his knuckles, and that's how Sam finds him just a few minutes later – Crowley in tow. Sam's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't comment. Crowley smirks.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” he says, “to save your self-respect.”

Dean glares but doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand. “Do you have what he needs?”

With a flourish, Crowley produces a small vile from his pocket. Its content is bright, shining like a soul.

“What is it?” Dean says.

“What do you think?” Crowley holds it out for him to take. “An angel's grace.”

Dean looks at it, swallows. “You kill an angel to get that?”

“No,” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes, “a unicorn gave it to me.”

“Crowley—”

“Don't act so shocked, Dean. How else did you think I'd get it?” Dean still doesn't take the vile, and Crowley makes to pocket it again. “If you don't want it...”

“Just give it here,” he says, holding out his hand. The vile is warm to the touch, like the swirling grace inside it is alive – which, he supposes, it is. “What do I do?”

“Just open it,” Crowley says, taking a judicious step back. “It'll know where to go.”

The vile is glass and the stopper slides out easily, tendrils of grace drifting up as if sniffing the air, then darting toward Cas. His head tilts back when it touches his lips, then he gasps and it's gone, diving into his mouth and inside him. There's a breathless moment of nothing, then a bright white flare as Cas arcs up off the bed, then sits bolt upright, eyes open and shining with celestial light. Behind him, shadowed against the wall, Dean glimpses the faint shape of tattered wings and the air crackles with the static power he remembers from the first day they met.

“Dean,” Cas growls, fixing him with that hard, angelic gaze, “what have you done?”

And then his eyes roll back and he collapses, boneless, onto the bed.

 

“What the fuck?” Dean prowls the length of the war room. “What the _fuck_ , Crowley? You were supposed to fix him!”

Hands up, defensive, Crowley takes a step back. “I have,” he says. “It’s just not instantaneous.”

“It's the trials,” Sam explains from where he's slumped, exhausted at the table. “Remember how long it took Gadreel to heal me?”

“Listen to Samantha,” Crowley says. “This isn’t bloody chickenpox we’re talking about. It’ll work.”

“It better had.”

“It will.” Crowley smiles that smug smile of his and dusts his hands together. “So, if that’s all, I’ll be on my way. Things to do, people to torment.” He slides Dean a look. “I'll be in touch about that other matter.”

Sam sits up, ears pricked. “What other matter?”

But Crowley's already gone, leaving Dean holding the can. Fan-freakin’-tastic.

“Dean?” Sam says, prissy. “What other matter?”

“Nothing.” Because he can’t deal with this now and he's already turning back toward his room, toward Cas.

“Dean.”

He stops, rubs at the tension in the back of his neck. “Later, okay?” It’s more of a pathetic plea than he’d like, but he can’t help that. “I just need to make sure Cas is...”

Sam's expression is half frustration, half concern, and all exhaustion. “Yeah,” he sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Yeah, okay. Tell me later.”

“You, uh,” Dean says, hovering in the doorway, “you should get some sleep, Sammy. You look like crap on a stick.”

“Thanks,” he says, with a wry tilt of his lips. “I will.”

“I mean it. I'll sit with Cas until he's—” He swallows against the frightened twitch in his chest. “You know, until he wakes up.”

Sam just nods, pushes to his feet. “He'll be okay,” he says. “I'm sure he'll be okay.”

“Yeah.” He heads through the door, but Sam stops him again.

“Dean?”

He turns back. “Yeah?”

“I'm not sure I realized before.”

“Realized what?”

Sam shrugs, looks awkward, like he's hedging his answer. “How much Cas means to you, I guess.”

His gut gives a panicky twist. “Dude—”

“No, I mean, it's cool. It's— It's good to have something, you know? With someone. Whatever it is.”

Dean just stares because he's not sure what Sam's saying, not sure what he's feeling, and has no words to express any of it. “I, uh,” he says eventually, nodding toward his room, “I'm gonna...”

“Yeah,” Sam says looking almost as uncomfortable as Dean feels. “Absolutely. Let me know if you guys need anything.”

“Just get some sleep,” Dean says, and disappears before Sam can emo at him anymore.

When he gets back to his room, Cas has moved. He's rolled onto his side, face pressed into Dean's pillows, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. It looks like a good sign, like he's sleeping rather than comatose. Dean hangs back for a moment, halfheartedly considers leaving to crash in one of the spare rooms, then tells himself to quit being an idiot and drops down into the chair next to the bed. After another indecisive moment he touches his fingertips to Cas's forehead – his skin feels cool, his breathing is deep. He's sleeping.

Dean’s breath punches out of him, his whole body hunching over in relief. Cas is okay, he's going to be okay.

He's going to be okay until this new grace runs out...

But they'll burn that bridge when they get to it. For now, Cas is okay. He's safe. And he's home.

That last thought startles him upright, back rigid with the implications. Home? Is that what this is? Is that how he feels about it, about Cas being here?

Alone in the silent room he lets himself think like he rarely does out in the real world. His lets his gaze linger on Cas, on his face, in a way he would never normally allow. It’s so familiar, that face, so welcome a sight whenever he shows up, with his frustrated little eye-rolls and wry smiles that are barely there unless you know how to look. His eyes are closed, but Dean remembers all their expressions, from steely intent to earnest concern, from narrow confusion to warm affection. And it makes him smile; it makes something joyous expand inside his chest.

He realizes, in the silence of the room, in the silence of his own mind, that he loves that face. The thought flutters through his mind like a bird trying to land, like it's tentative and could be frightened away at any moment.

Dean sends his gaze down to Cas's lips, deliberately sparking a memory of that kiss that wasn't really a kiss – except that it was. It really was. He wonders where it might have led if he hadn't freaked out, whether he'd be sitting here now watching Cas breathe. He wonders what he'd do if it happened again, whether he'd let it happen again – whether he wants it to or not.

He thinks he does.

This thing he feels for Cas, it defies everything he ever thought about himself. But then Castiel has always defied his expectations; he saved him, saved his soul when Dean knew beyond doubt that he wasn't worth saving; he believed in him when Dean couldn't believe in himself. And he rebelled for him, gave up everything – an _eternity_ of everything – for him. _For him._

Because he loved him.

Dean doesn't doubt that; he's known it for a long time, even if he's never let himself think about it in those exact terms. But Cas's affection, sometimes fond, sometimes exasperated, has never really been hidden and Dean's taken it for granted, even used it to his own advantage. He sees that now and feels ashamed. Cas deserves better, so much more than Dean has given him.

The question he has to answer now is whether he can change, whether he has it in him to give Cas what he deserves. And whether he's brave enough to risk that much of himself...

 

Later, he wakes up with a crick in his neck and a blanket draped over his knees. He jolts upright when he realizes he's alone. The bed is empty and Cas has gone.

“Shit,” he mutters, untangling himself from the blanket – how did that even get there? Stumbling out of his room he can hear Sam snoring further down the hall, so he doesn't call out, but there are noises coming from the kitchen which must be Cas. He hasn't left, thank God.

He slows himself down, gives himself time to think and for his pulse to stop racing. He needs to get a grip. So he doesn't walk into the kitchen right away, just hovers in the doorway watching Cas make himself a sandwich.

It's bizarrely domestic, painfully endearing, and Dean finds himself smiling as he watches Castiel, angel of the Lord, spreading peanut butter and jelly on bread, pouring coffee. He looks competent, like any regular guy, and Dean wonders how many PB&J sandwiches he ate as a human – then he thinks of April Kelly offering him her lunch and his stomach gives a guilty squirm. He should have been there for Cas, helping him when he was at his most vulnerable, standing between him and those who wanted to do him harm.

He should have been there then. More importantly, he realizes, he wants to be there now – between Cas and those who’d do him harm.

“I've made coffee,” Cas says without turning around, “if you'd like some. I hope you don't mind me helping myself?”

And of course he knows Dean's there. His angel spidey-sense is probably tingling. Dean clears his throat, strangely nervous. “Thanks,” he says, his voice still a little gruffer than he'd like. “How you feeling?”

Cas turns, no trace of a smile on his face. “Hungry,” he says, holding up the plate. “And...” He shakes his head and moves to the table. “Disappointed?”

Dean doesn't move, stays in the doorway, nerves giving way to irritation. “Oh really?” he says. “Disappointed to find yourself alive?”

Cas’s head ticks, like he's biting something back. “I didn't ask for this,” he says, sitting down. “Another angel died so that I can live for, what, another few months?” He takes an angry bite of sandwich. “It's wrong.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know.”

That must surprise Cas because his eyes lift to meet Dean's in confusion. “Then why? I could have done it, Dean. I could have closed the gates to Hell forever. My death could have had _meaning_.”

Dean looks at him, really looks. He makes himself study the angry fire in those eyes, the rebellious set of his jaw, the taut press of his lips. And he makes himself feel the surge of emotion they provoke – the anger and fear and fierce affection. “Let me ask you a question,” he says, pushing away from the doorjamb and into the kitchen. “If it was me doing the trials, would you be okay with that?”

A flash of panic wipes the anger from Cas's face. “You can't, Dean.”

“Sure I can.”

“No, that's— I’m _dying_ ,” he says. “I can only live by stealing the grace from other angels. I'm- I'm a monster, Dean. But you—”

“Just answer the question,” Dean says. “If it was me, would you let me die to close the gates to Hell?”

He puts the sandwich down, irritated. “You know my answer.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Then you know mine too.”

Cas frowns, confused. “No. That's not— you don't...” He shuts his mouth, says no more, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“It's selfish,” Dean concedes. “I know that. But I can't lose you, Cas. That's just how it is. And if some douchebag angel has to die to buy you time to get your grace back, then I'm good with that.”

“They're my brothers and sisters--”

“They're hunting you!”

Cas is silent, eyes fixed on Dean like he's looking at a puzzle. “What about Abaddon? We have no means to stop her.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Crowley has some ideas.”

“ _Crowley_? Dean—”

“We'll deal with it,” he says, dismissing the conversation before it can begin. “And we need you juiced up to do it, Cas.”

He stares for a moment, and then drops his eyes back to his sandwich. “I see.”

A silence falls between them, tense in a way Dean doesn't fully understand. Not sure what else to say, he goes to help himself to coffee, pulls cream out of the fridge, and watches Cas stare at his plate the whole time. “You okay?” Dean says in the end, for want of something more original.

Cas frowns like he's studying a particularly unpleasant problem. “That's why you stopped me,” he says. “Because you need me 'juiced up'. Like a weapon.”

Dean blinks, forgets his coffee. “What?”

“That's what you need me for,” Cas says. “It's always what you...” He trails off, and then gets abruptly to his feet. “Excuse me.”

“Wait.” Dean grabs his arm before he can leave. He’s still wearing the t-shirt Dean found him in and his hand lands on the warm skin at Cas’s elbow.

Cas goes still, his back turned. “I'm tired, Dean.”

“Okay,” he says, not letting go. “I just— Look, that's not why, okay? You're not a weapon. That's not why I stopped you.”

He doesn't say anything, but his back stiffens like he's tensing for a fight – or for flight.

“I told you why,” Dean presses on, his voice going a little scratchy. “Cas, I told you why. It's the same reason you could never let me die.”

“No it's not,” Cas says, angry, like Dean's joking and the joke's on him. “We both know it's different, Dean.”

And this is the moment. This is the moment where it could go either way, where Dean could release his arm and let him go, or where he could hold on and man up. He feels the seconds tick past, feels the moment stretch thin between them, feels Cas tug against Dean's grip, shifting his weight forward as he starts to pull away.

Dean holds on. “It's not different,” he says in a rough whisper. “It's the same, Cas. It's _exactly_ the same.”

Cas freezes. “I don't understand.” His voice is gravelly with tension. “I don't understand what you're saying.”

“Well that makes two of us.” He gives a shaky laugh, but doesn't let go. If anything he tightens his grip. “Cas, I have no fucking idea what this is, where this is going, I just know that—” He tugs on his arm. “Look at me, will you?”

Cas turns, eyes wide and startled. He looks like he's on the verge of bolting, like he doesn't have a clue what's going on. His confusions snatches at Dean's breath, makes him braver, because of course, after last time, Cas won't make any assumptions. Dean's going to have to spell this out as best he can.

“That night...?” His throat goes dry and he licks his lips. “Christmas?”

“Dean.”

“No, listen. You weren't wrong, okay? What happened, that was – it wasn't just you. You didn't fuck up. I did.”

Cas looks astonished, turns his head away, then back again. He's frowning. “But you said... You let me think— I thought I'd ruined _everything_.”

“I know,” Dean says, contrite but not letting go of Cas's arm. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I didn't know, okay? I— I hadn't figured it out.”

“And now?” he says, cautiously. “Now you've 'figured it out'?”

Dean laughs, low in his throat. “Kinda. Maybe. I just know that we're better off together, you and me.”

“Dean,” Cas says, in a voice thrumming with tension, “please be explicit. I'm terrible at reading between the lines. Mostly I don't even know where the lines _are_.”

His frustration makes Dean smile, makes that warm feeling bubble up in the gaps Cas's absence leaves behind. He edges closer, right into Cas's space, pulse spiking because this is— is he really doing this? Now? With _Cas_? Because _fuck_. He takes a steadying breath, breathes out slow, holding Cas’s intent gaze the whole time. And, yeah, he's doing this. He's doing this _right now_. Heart hammering he very deliberately smooths his thumb across the soft skin inside Cas's elbow.

Cas swallows, hard. “Dean.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs and leans in, lets his eyes drift shut. Cas shivers and Dean tries not to think about anything beyond that, beyond this single aching moment. Blood pounds in his ears, his breath stills, and he slowly, slowly closes the distance between them, grazing a kiss against Castiel's lips. And it's like it was before – peaceful, happy, like coming home.

Cas hitches a breath and Dean opens his eyes to find him gazing at him in wonder.

“Was that—?” Dean clears his throat. “Was that explicit enough for you?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Thank you, Dean.” And then he smiles, that real smile that's so rare. “This is really what you want?”

Dean nods. “But I gotta tell you, man, I have no clue what happens next.”

Cas's smile softens but doesn't leave his eyes; they're sparkling with it. “Good,” he says, “because neither do I.” His expression hovers somewhere between awe and amusement. “I guess we'll just have to make it up as we go along.”

“Sounds like us,” Dean agrees, and with a surge of happiness pulls Cas into a fierce hug, holding him tight and breathing into the crook of his neck. “We'll figure it all out.”

“I know,” Cas says, holding on just as tight. “We always do.”

“Always will.”

Cas huffs a laugh. “I like the sound of always.”

And Dean tries not to think what 'always' might mean to an angel, or what it might mean to him with Crowley's deal hanging over his head, with Abaddon on their heels. He puts it all from his mind, thinks only of now, of this moment, of the way he's unfurling inside like the sun just came out. “Man, this is probably the craziest thing we've ever done.”

Cas hums his agreement, warm breath against Dean's neck, then pulls away. “So far,” he amends, with a significant tip of his head.

Dean laughs, ruffles a hand through Cas's hair, and says, “Go finish your sandwich, dufus.”

 

Cas sleeps on and off for most of the next day, and Dean drifts in and out of his room, sometimes dozing in the chair, a couple of times stretching out next to Cas on the bed. That's all they do, but it's more than enough for Dean, still adjusting as he is to the reality of this abrupt shift in his identity. Cas seems easier with it, but doesn't push anything. Maybe he smiles more readily than he did, maybe he watches Dean more often, with more overt affection, but otherwise he's the same as ever. And Sam, if he's noticed anything different, stays quiet, although Dean thinks he might be studying them both more closely than usual. But Dean doesn't care; he's just happy to have this time together in the quiet few days at the turn of the year.

December 31st finds him outside the bunker, watching the sky. It's a clear night, the stars bright enough that he can pick out all the constellations he knows, the air crisp and cold. Sam is cross-legged on the roof of the Impala, resting back on one hand with a beer in the other. Cas leans on the hood next to Dean, wearing one of Dean's jackets against the cold – which is all kinds of strange, but in a totally good way. They're close enough that their shoulders touch, a little heat exchanged between them, and Dean breathes deep. Content.

“You ever been up there, Cas?” Sam asks from behind them. “Into space?”

Dean's expecting Cas to laugh, but instead he says, “Of course. It's all God's creation. In the beginning, the angels were everywhere.”

“Woah.” Dean turns to look at him, this guy with his disheveled hair and hand-me-down clothes who's lived the history of creation. “For real?”

“Yes, for real.”

“What's it like?” Sam says.

“Beautiful.” Cas tips his face back to the stars. “Empty. Soulless. I like it better here.”

“Good,” Dean says and smiles around the lip of his beer bottle as he takes a drink.

Cas presses his shoulder against Dean's a little more firmly, and when Dean looks over Cas is watching him with smiling eyes. “It's almost New Year here, now,” he says, glancing down at his watch. He's been giving them a running commentary of the New Year’s progress around the world, fascinated by the concept of time as a line crawling across the globe.

“Don't look at your watch, man,” Dean says.

“But how will we know when—”

“Watch,” Dean says, tipping his chin up with one finger. “Watch the sky.”

A minute or two later the first firework detonates over Lebanon, lighting the sky in blue and gold. Then another follows, several others after. “Happy New Year,” Dean says, bumping his arm against Cas.

His eyes are fixed on the sky over the town as the fireworks eventually fade away. “This is why humanity amazes me so much,” he says. “They have no idea what's coming, but they're celebrating anyway.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Dean says, toeing his boot into the dirt.

Sam clips him on the back of the head as he scrambles off the roof. “Don't mind him,” he says. “Dean always hates New Year's.”

“Ow!” Dean rubs at his head and throws Sam a mock glower.

Sam just smiles. “I'm heading in before my butt freezes off. You guys coming?”

“In a minute,” Dean says, not looking at Cas even though he can feel his eyes on him.

Sam just nods and heads into the bunker, leaving the door ajar, a stripe of golden light spilling into the dark.

“Is that true?” Cas says when they're alone. “That you hate New Year's?”

He shrugs. “Like you said, we don't know what's coming. What's to celebrate?”

“I think you're missing the point.”

“The point being?” He's not arguing, he's genuinely fascinated by Cas's take on the world.

Cas moves closer, pressing in warm against Dean's side, close enough that his hair brushes his face and sends a little shiver down Dean’s spine. “Hope,” Cas says seriously. “The triumph of hope over fear. That's what makes humanity so unique, so worth fighting for.” He turns his head, eyes bright in the dark. “So worth loving.”

“C'mon...” Dean protests, looking away, embarrassed.

Cas ignores it, lifts a hand to Dean's cheek and turns his face back toward him. “Don't tell me you don't have hope, Dean. I know you do. It's the first thing I ever knew about you, the first thing I felt when I touched your soul: hope over fear, hope in spite of fear. Hope in the face of death. It's pretty much who you are. ”

“Cas,” Dean says, half-awed and half-amused, “you are one intense dude.”

His eyes roll in faux offense. “Shut up, Dean,” he says, and leans in to kiss him. Intensely.

Dean finds he doesn't mind the intensity at all, finds himself smiling against Cas's lips as he slips his arms around his waist and pulls him close. “And a happy New Year to you too, Castiel.”

It's good, standing there under the stars, wrapped up in someone else and feeling hopeful. It's so good that Dean allows himself to believe there's a chance it might be real, that for once they've actually caught a break.

In the months to come he'll return to that night, with Cas warm in his arms and the stars bright above them, standing together in hope on the cusp of a new year. He'll horde the memory against the encroaching darkness, holding onto it when every other hope has been crushed.

 

Only four days into January, it starts. Crowley shows up and Dean meets him at a bar in town, away from the bunker.

“So,” he says when Dean joins him at the bar, “how's Castiel? Back to his rumpled-yet-strangely-sexy self?”

Dean says, “Why are you here?”

“Not much for small talk, are you?” Crowley takes a sip of his stupid-looking drink and sighs. “Down to business then – you know why I'm here. A deal's a deal.”

“And?”

“And I've got a lead.”

Despite himself, Dean's interested. He looks down into his whiskey, swirls it around, tries not to imagine what Cas would say if he knew where he was, what he was doing – and, especially, why he was doing it. “A lead on Abaddon?”

“Better,” Crowley says. “On a weapon you can use to kill her.”

Dean's eyes flit to Crowley's, hold their measured gaze. “What kind of a weapon?”

“A knife,” he says, like it's no big deal.

“What, like Ruby's? A demon-killing knife?”

Crowley smiles. “Something like that,” he says. “It's called the First Blade. It's very powerful. I think you'll like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from 'I Believe in Father Christmas' by Emerson, Lake And Palmer
> 
> Thanks for reading - I hope you enjoyed it. You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)


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